


The First Night

by cafei_au_lei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, F/M, Nymphadora Tonks - Freeform, POV Remus Lupin, Remus Lupin-centric, brief reference to suicidal ideation, remus lupin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28807605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafei_au_lei/pseuds/cafei_au_lei
Summary: Most major events in Remus' life have done nothing but reinforce the crushing inevitability of his condition and the life that it has condemned him to. But maybe there is hope to be had, after all.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	The First Night

The first night of the rest of his life, the night he was bitten, there was blinding pain.

He doesn't remember much before the pain. He was sure his parents tucked him into bed as they usually did, that his mother pressed a kiss to his forehead before extinguishing the lights. He was sure his parents were deeply asleep when they were suddenly awoken by his terrified screams. He doesn't remember any of this, though, only the piercing of teeth into flesh, the crunch of bones, and pain. All-consuming, burning pain that threatened to tear apart his small, fragile body.

He does remember other things in vivid flashes, as if he is watching his own life from a reel of film that's been clipped in odd places. He remembers flashes of light, his father shouting; then the clatter of a wand on the floor and the faraway feeling of his father's hands, rough and frantic, grabbing him from where his mother had him bundled against her chest. His mother was saying something indiscernible, her voice constricted with panic, her nightgown soaked through with his blood and his vomit and his tears and his snot and _her_ tears; his father's voice was low and labored as he explained to his wife why they couldn't bring their grievously injured son to the nearest Muggle hospital. His body had gone limp with shock at this point, the pain blinding, and his father had easily managed to pull him from his mother's grasp.

He remembers the harsh, unforgiving lights of St. Mungo's above him, burning his swollen, tear-stained eyes; probing hands pushing and pulling at his body, pressing scratchy gauze against his ruined skin; the soothing, herbal smell of dittany, mixed with the thick tang of his own blood and sweat; vile potions, a Healer with cold hands grimacing as she forcibly held his jaw open in order to tip a vial of some burning red liquid down his throat while he sobbed and choked.

He remembers, finally, a slight reprieve in the pain; it was still there, but it had dulled around the edges, enough that his restless, flailing limbs finally felt heavy enough to sink down into the bed, the lights dimming and the Healers' faces swimming above him as his eyesight became blurry, his eyelids like lead.

He remembers another Healer's hushed voice in the hallway, weaving through the small gap created by a door left slightly ajar; snippets of a conversation Remus was certainly not meant to overhear, punctuated by sobs from his mother. He couldn't hear his father. "His first transformation...chance of survival...less than fifty percent chance, if that...body is too small to withstand... life of an outcast...many parents find it best to abandon....there are packs of others _like him_..."

He remembers his mother striding back into the room, more silence from his father as she bundled him to her chest again, carefully this time. There was still the pain, coming back sharper again; coursing through every vein, every bone, every cell of his body, reaching its roots deep into his brain until it felt as if every nerve in his body were alight in flame. "We're taking Remus home," he remembers her saying, her voice clipped with fury. "We are not abandoning him. You cannot convince me to leave my son. I don’t care what he...what his condition is now. He is our _son._ " He vaguely remembers the Healer's pitying look as his parents defied the hospital's recommendation and prepared to bring their newly werewolf son back to their small house on the outskirts of Cardiff.

He remembers his parents' bed, the sheets soft against his burning skin; his mother pressing a kiss against his forehead, as she had hours before - or was it days before? He doesn’t know how long he was in the hospital - when she’d tucked him into bed, before the pain had come. He remembers his mother's hands, soft on his face as she tilted his head back, pressing another vial of that horrid red stuff against his chapped lips. "Swallow this, Remus, love," she murmured. "It will take the pain away. Mummy will always try her best to take the pain away." He complied; his mother was far gentler than the Healer had been, and the potion didn't taste so vile this time around.

He remembers tense voices in the hallway outside his parents' room, another conversation he was certainly not meant to overhear. His father's voice, low and gravelly with bitterness. "My fault...in danger...better off without me, safer...all my fault..."

His mother's reply was clearer, her voice terse. "I don't care how guilty you feel. You don't think it's agonizing for me to see our son like this as well? It hurts, Lyall, and it'll continue to hurt and it'll be so, so hard, but we _must_ do this together." Her voice wavered slightly; there was a pause, then she continued, her voice low and dangerous. "I understand how you feel and we will need to talk about this later. This...what you told me about... _him_ , what you said to him that incensed him enough that he would...he would do this to an innocent child, our Remus, I...we can talk about that. We _must_ talk about that. We will handle it together, and if we work together, I...I can forgive you for whatever it is you’ve done that has led to this. At least for his sake. But so help me god, if you leave us now, if you leave me to care for our son all on my own, if you abandon him _when he needs you most_ , I will _never_ forgive you, Lyall."

He remembers hearing a few more tense words exchanged between his parents before the door pushed open quietly, the wedge of light from the hallway widening briefly to illuminate his father, who hesitated only for a moment in the doorway before shutting the door and making his way over to the bed. He remembers being nearly asleep by this point, the potion working its magic and making his brain all fuzzy and his body all tingly. His father had kneeled by the side of the bed, gripping the bed-sheets tightly in his fists. He had opened his mouth, looking as if he was struggling to say something, before he'd snapped it closed again, his eyes squeezing shut. He remembers his father brushing his damp, sweaty hair back from his face, leaning over to press a quick, hard kiss to his forehead. "I love you, sweetheart," he'd said, his voice rough. Then he'd stood and strode quickly out of the room.

He remembers his mother coming back in, only for a moment, to set a glass of water on the beside table and to brush a hand over his forehead. He remembers wanting to ask her about the big, scary dog, the dog that had bitten him; he remembers wanting to ask her to sit by the window to make sure that nothing else could get in to hurt him. But as his mother pressed one more kiss to his forehead, the searing pain that was radiating from his left side felt as if it were tugging on every fiber of his being, and he found he couldn't summon the energy to even open his mouth to speak. And so he drifted off into a pain potion-tainted slumber, finding out much later that his parents had stayed up the rest of that night. They'd needed to make plans for what they would do in a month's time, when their five year old son's body would turn on itself for the first of many times in his life.

* * *

The first night at Hogwarts, he cries himself to sleep. He's scared, homesick, and exhausted.

The first day had gone well enough, aside from the morning being rather disastrous. He woke up in his small bed at home and had breakfast with his parents for the last time for several months. He'd then promptly thrown up this breakfast, begging his mother to let him stay home while he sobbed over the toilet, insisting that he didn't want to go to Hogwarts anymore, that he didn't think this was a good idea.

His parents assured him that this was the most ridiculous thing they'd ever heard. He was _meant_ to go to Hogwarts; he'd been visited personally by Albus Dumbledore himself!

He'd been both excited and confused when the headmaster had shown up at their small cottage; though at first he'd been afraid, and he knew his parents were afraid, too. He'd heard them pleading with someone at the door, someone it sounded like they were desperately willing to go away. But suddenly, Albus Dumbledore himself was there, kneeling on the floor in front of him where he sat before the fire and mildly offering up a game of gobstones. And from the way the older man was smiling at him, Remus knew, deep down, that somehow this must mean something _good_ was about to happen to him.

As the headmaster had explained to him that he was going to Hogwarts, Remus had felt an initial rush of excitement - of happiness. Of _belonging._ Finally, he was _wanted_ somewhere.

Guilt started to seep in, however, and the thrill he'd experienced was slightly tarnished as Dumbledore explained the special accommodations they'd made so that he could safely attend and keep his condition a secret all the while. He couldn't help but wonder; what made him so special? Surely there were other werewolf children out there who longed for such a chance; why shouldn't they get to attend Hogwarts, too?

He was too afraid to ask this question, however. And in the end, once Dumbledore started explaining all the things he would learn at school with all the other young wizards and witches of his age, his elation won out and pushed past any lingering apprehension. He was finally going to be around other children; maybe he would finally have friends.

And so the day finally came when his parents accompanied him to King's Cross; after his slightly embarrassing meltdown at breakfast, he'd managed to quell his nerves enough to dry his tears before any of his new peers could see his red-rimmed eyes, though he briefly clung to his mother as she hugged him and pressed a kiss to his forehead before he boarded the train. He was relieved to find an empty compartment, and he sat in one of the corners by the window, trying to appear as small and inconspicuous as possible while enjoying the quiet of the compartment and watching the landscape outside start to blur as the train picked up speed. The serenity didn't last long, however, as two dark haired boys burst into the compartment.

"Mind if we join you?" said one of them, his untidy black hair sticking out all over the place. He grinned a toothy smile at Remus as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "Hello, by the way. I'm James. James Potter."

"I don't see why he'd mind, he's got the whole compartment to himself," said the other boy bluntly. Remus blinked as James' companion appraised him with steely grey eyes. "Hi, there. I'm Sirius."

"Do you - do you two know each other?" Remus stammered. How had others found friends so quickly? He immediately felt slightly nauseous again. Was he meant to be an outsider in every single way possible?

"Only as of five minutes ago. He ran his trolley into me," James replied cheerily, jerking a thumb at Sirius, who'd already thrown himself into one of the seats across from Remus, sprawling across the entire length of it. "His things went everywhere, he nearly missed the train, it was a right mess. So we ended up boarding together because my mum insisted I help him gather his things in time to get on."

"What's your name, then?" Sirius cut in.

Remus started. "Er -"

"We don't bite," Sirius added, arching an eyebrow as Remus hesitated, feeling his face heat up.

_But I do bite_. Remus pushed the thought out of his head as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm Remus. Remus Lupin."

"Now _that's_ a prattish name if I've ever heard one," Sirius replied. Remus was taken aback for only a moment, then let out a disbelieving laugh as the corners of Sirius' mouth quirked up.

"I suppose it is," he said, smiling hesitantly at the boy across from him. "You'll have to take that one up with my parents. I'll owl them immediately to let them know that Sirius-from-the-train disapproves and I'm sure they'll file with the Ministry for the name change immediately." He felt mildly pleased as Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter, and he relaxed slightly.

"So where are you from, Remus Lupin?" James asked, sitting down next to him.

"Cardiff," he answered automatically. "Er - that's where I was born, anyway. I suppose I'm technically from - I've lived - well, lots of places, actually. We've...my family has moved around a lot."

"Why is that?" Sirius asked curiously. Remus felt a cold rush of anxiety bloom in his stomach, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably with sweat.

"My dad works for the Ministry. He...it's boring, I don't even really know what he does," he replied with faked nonchalance. "But it means we have to move a lot."

Sirius shrugged, and to Remus' relief, that had been the end of that line of conversation. James and Sirius had proven surprisingly easy to talk to, though Remus felt himself tense up whenever they asked him any questions about himself. Thankfully, the conversation had soon turned towards what would await them at Hogwarts and what kind of food there would be at the welcome feast. They'd eventually been joined by another boy, Peter Pettigrew, who looked about as nervous as Remus felt, strangely putting him even further at ease. Aside from his nerves threatening to overwhelm him again at the Sorting ceremony, he'd managed to enjoy himself at the feast; he'd been relieved when he was sorted into the same house as his newly made acquaintances, so he had someone to sit next to as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.

When they'd finally made their way to the dormitories for the night, however, Remus felt his nerves return full-force as the other boys changed for bed. He wasn't sure it was wise to remove his shirt in front of them; aside from how self-conscious he felt about the smattering of scars that crossed his torso, he was sure that it would raise questions from the others if one of them noticed. And so he changed hastily in the bathroom; he was the only one who did so, and he tried to make his way back to his bed as casually as he could now that he was wearing his pyjamas. However, as the boys chattered and everyone settled down for the night, Remus felt someone's gaze on him, and he turned his head to see Sirius eyeing him curiously again.

Now, lying in bed, the reality of how hard he'll have to work to hide his condition hits him. The terror of someone finding out his secret starts to push any residual excited energy from the day out of his brain, leaving only a cold dread in its place.

Why couldn't he just be normal? Everything would be so much easier if he were just fucking _normal_. He would already know how to make friends, he wouldn't have to change in the bathrooms, he wouldn't have to lie about his childhood and his family. How is he ever going to make friends if he has to lie about the simplest of things in order to ensure his biggest secret stays a secret?

He thinks about how his parents had reassured him only this morning that he belongs at Hogwarts, and he feels the tears come faster at the thought that maybe they were wrong, and that him coming here only means he will inevitably let them down. He wonders, not for the first time, how often his parents wish they had a different child.

* * *

The first night after James and Lily die, he doesn’t remember anything. He doesn't know where he went or what he did. He wakes up on the floor of the small, roach-infested kitchen of his pitiable flat in the early hours of the following morning; he reeks of sweat and stale alcohol, and he is alone. _Alone_. Blurry memories start to slowly materialize in his boozy, foggy brain, memories of Dumbledore waiting for him as he returned from an Order mission. Waiting with eyes full of pity to tell him that three of his best friends are dead, and the fourth best friend is the one who is responsible for the entire tragedy. Remus left four days ago for his mission and has returned to find that all those who brought his life meaning, those who had promised to stay by his side no matter what, are lost to him forever. He is now completely, utterly alone. There is no one, nothing, left for him now.

Remus sits up; the room spins and he promptly vomits onto his shoes, his lap, the floor in front of him. He wishes he hadn't woken up. He wishes he'd drank enough to ensure that he'd never wake up again. He sits in a puddle of his own sick and sobs loudly until his tears run dry.

* * *

The first night after the reinstated Order's first official meeting, Remus can't sleep. He feels as if he's haunted both by the past and by a future that hasn't yet come to pass, but which pains him all the same.

He thinks about how he had sat at the table that evening, looking around the kitchen; he'd painfully felt the absence of those they'd lost the first time around, and he'd been able to tell by the sullen look on Sirius' face that he had felt it, too. Remus had looked around at all the new members, eager and determined, and he had wondered if they truly knew what they'd gotten themselves into.

He tosses and turns in bed now, thinking of them. He thinks of Hestia, with her rosy cheeks and contagious laughter. He thinks of Sturgis, with his handsome jawline and charming, dimpled smile. He thinks of Kingsley, with his calm, reassuring voice and his intelligent eyes. He thinks of Tonks, with her colorful hair and cheerful determination. He thinks of Molly, with her motherly smile and her personal mission to ensure that everyone at the meeting tonight felt well-fed and cared for; Molly, who lost both her brothers in the first war; Molly, who still has so much to lose this time around.

He sighs, rolling over and adjusting his pillow although he knows sleep is far from claiming him.

He thinks back to how it felt the first time around, losing everyone that he'd cared about. He is determined not to let that happen again; but due to the nature of war, the inevitability of loss, he knows that he alone can't simply prevent it from happening. All he can do is ensure he stays detached. He is lonely, sure; he is not too proud to admit that. But having Sirius back will certainly help, and anyway, he is used to it.

He isn't sure he can stand the pain again, the pain he felt when James and Lily died; and so the only way to protect himself from this is to ensure that no one else ever gets as close to him as his old friends did. It's safer for everyone else that way, anyway, he thinks. For no one is ever eager to spend much time in the company of a werewolf; this much is true, and because of it, Remus has long ago resigned himself to a lonely life.

* * *

The first night at the camp, he dreams of her.

Most of the werewolves sleep in small groups scattered amongst the trees, but he's managed to find a small, unoccupied corner of the clearing for himself. He knows he should integrate properly; he _must_. It's crucial, even though he feels extremely unsettled by the foreign feeling of being surrounded by those who have led lives of the type _he_ should have led, but was somehow lucky enough to escape - until now. He knows the sooner he tries to blend in, the easier it will all be; both for the sake of his mission and for his own mental adjustment. The sooner he'll adjust to this being his new reality.

Yet it's too soon, this first night, and he's not ready yet. He needs to sleep alone, away from the others. He's afraid he'll wake up from a dream, that he'll mumble in his sleep, that he'll say something that will give him away. That he'll say something that will give _her_ away.

He wakes abruptly with a quiet gasp, the image of her dark eyes, her soft pink hair, her warm fingers intertwined with his still blazing in his mind. He misses her; he doesn't remember specifics of the dream, only that it was full of the sound of her and the feel of her and that he's woken up hard.

The image of her is still at the forefront of his mind, and it fills him with such painful longing that it feels as if he’s been winded by a punch to the gut. Alone on the forest floor, he touches himself, thinking about the way she used to look at him, the way she played with his hair when they were alone; thinking about the first time she had kissed him, the shock he'd felt at the possibility - no, the _reality -_ that he hadn't imagined it, that she'd wanted him, too. He touches himself, thinking about the way she felt beneath him, thinking about the way she looked up at him while he was inside her, her moans heavy with lust and her eyes full of love, and he comes thinking of her.

He's immediately overcome with disgust and shame. That he's thinking of her - thinking of her at her most vulnerable, thinking of the most intimate moments they'd shared - in a place like this. That he's possibly ruined one of the best things to ever happen to him, even though he knows he had no choice but to do so, and he knows that she will eventually move on; she'll find someone closer to her age, someone handsome and successful and _whole_ , and he'll be stuck here, surrounded by his fellows yet still so painfully and pathetically alone, masturbating to the thought of a version of her lost to the past who had boldly yet foolishly chosen to love him. All while he fades to nothing but a regrettable memory for her, a momentary lapse in the successful, fruitful, vivacious life he knows that she'll live without him.

And yet, he cannot stop thinking about her, even as the days and weeks and months wear on. The memories start to feel more like dreams now, harder to hold onto firmly; yet her and her color, her vitality, never seem to fade, even if the circumstances and backgrounds of his memories all start to blur together in his wearied mind.

Each night, he thinks of her; and though he hates himself for it, each night he hopes that she's still thinking of him, too.

* * *

The first night he returns to his pregnant wife, he sleeps on the couch and he feels he could die of shame.

He knows he's made the right decision, coming back here; he knows he's fucked up by leaving her. He wishes it hadn't taken Harry Potter yelling at him to make him realize it (god, how could he have spoken like that to Harry? How could he have _acted_ like that in front of the three teenagers? What would James think of him now?) He's made the biggest mistake of his life, and still, somehow, Dora was gracious enough to let him stay here.

He'd offered to go elsewhere, while she made her decision; while she thought things through. But she'd snapped at the suggestion. "Don't be a moron, there's a fucking war on. You'll not sleep anywhere else, not when I finally know you're at least fucking alive." She'd forcefully shut the door, reaching around him to push it closed while taking extra care not to touch him. "You'll sleep on the couch, of course. I can't - I can't bear to be anywhere near you right now."

"Of course," he'd replied quietly.

He tosses and turns now on the Tonks' lumpy couch, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so fucking selfish?

He pushes against the new wave of self-loathing that threatens to overwhelm him; it was that exact self-loathing that had led him to his present situation, after all. He had told Dora that he would try to be better, that he would be better for her, for their baby. But how can he do that _and_ continue to live with what he'd done? He'd come back with a narrow-minded determination to make things right, if only Dora would have him back; and even then, if she decides she doesn't want him in her life anymore ( _don't think about that because even just the thought of it will break you_) he will do all he can to ensure he does right by their child.

But he still doesn't quite know how to make things right. He doesn't know if he can, frankly, no matter how much he wishes to do so. How do you patch up the hurt when you've hurt the one you love most, the one who loves _you_ most, in one of the most horrid ways possible?

He eventually falls into a restless sleep, waking abruptly some time later when he hears a clinking noise near his head; he turns over quickly, seeing the vague shape of his wife in the grey light of the early morning hours, her baby bump just barely visible under the sash of her robe.

"Water," she says shortly. "Thought you might need it, considering you smelled like England's most debauched pub when you came through the door last night."

"Thank you," he says, his throat scratchy and raw. "I...Dora, I just wanted to say that I'm sor-"

"No, Remus," she snaps. "Don't - don't fucking say that right now. I don't want to hear your excuses or your apologies. Not yet. Just - just shut up. I'm going back to bed for a bit." She gives a small, bitter laugh. It sounds odd coming from her mouth. "I've been having rather nasty bouts of morning sickness over the past week or so, but you wouldn't know that, would you?"

He feels his cheeks flush with shame. "No, I wouldn't," he says quietly. He hesitates as she walks away from him, then the words leave his mouth against his better judgment, just as she's reached the door of the living room. "I - Dora, I love you. So much."

"Fuck you, Remus," she hisses suddenly, whirling around. "It's - god, you don't even understand, do you? I love you, too, but it's _so fucking hard_ to love you that sometimes I wish I just didn't. Would be easier that way, wouldn't it?" With that, she turns and leaves, going up the stairs so loudly that he's sure that Ted and Andromeda are awake now, if they weren't before.

Remus lays back against the cushions of the sofa, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs as he swallows around a lump in his throat. And not for the first time in his life, he feels overwhelmed by crushing regret; but for perhaps the first time in his life, this special kind of pain could have been avoided entirely; everything that's happened is _entirely his fault_ , even though he's been convinced (foolishly, selfishly) all the while that it's because of his condition that he's caused his wife pain. But he realizes now that it wasn't the lycanthropy that's caused this rift between them; it's Remus Lupin, the man, who is responsible for their pain, and it's this realization that makes it even worse.

* * *

The first night after Remus becomes a father, he can barely speak.

Andromeda passes the tiny bundle of blankets to him, and he looks down at his son sleeping quietly in his arms. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but he finds that words fail him, and he lets out a small, choked noise instead. He feels Dora's small hand rubbing his back soothingly, between his shoulder blades, as she always used to do.

"Isn't he perfect, Remus?" she says, her voice soft with exhaustion, and he turns to look at her where she's sitting beside him on the bed. She's beaming; her face is still flushed and sweaty from labor, and her fringe is damp and plastered to her forehead, and Remus thinks that she's never looked more beautiful. "You and I made that little turquoise thing right there."

"I -" he clears his throat as his voice cracks. "He looks just like you."

Tonks grins, peering over his shoulder at Teddy. "Nah, he's all you. Look at that cute little nose!"

"That's -" he manages a smile. "That's not exactly how I'd describe my nose, but thank you."

"Well, _I_ think your nose is cute," she replies. She leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of the nose in question. "He's handsome. Just like his father."

"Dora, I..." Remus suddenly notices that his mother-in-law has quietly left the room, doubtless to give them some privacy. "I just...you're amazing. Thank you so much."

"What, for pushing this little guy out a far-too-small opening? I'll be honest, it _was_ pretty painful. Merlin, his head doesn't look _nearly_ as big as it felt when it was coming out my fanny."

"Yes, my more or less broken fingers can attest to that," he says with a small smile. "I'm glad I could be of service, of course."

"And we are definitely finding a foolproof form of contraception before I let you shag me again, but...I'd do it all over again," she finishes with a smile. "The birth, I mean, but obviously the shagging, too. Though I mean it, we are being _careful_ now that we know how fucking fertile you are. Merlin, _one time_ we forget the contraceptive charm and here we are. Seriously, _far_ too small a hole. Imagine you're trying to piss out a melon, and -"

"Yes, thanks for that imagery, Dora." He rolls his eyes, though he's grinning now. He knows he still has a long way to go to make up for his serious transgressions against the stability of their relationship, but things have felt much more normal between them over the past few months; the love had always been there, even the rocky first few weeks after he'd returned, but now their ability to casually joke and flirt with one another has become easy again, and he is relieved; it's one of the things he'd realized he'd missed the most. "I meant...thank you. For...I know I have not been the best husband. That's...I'm aware that's the understatement of the year, but I just - I know I haven't made it easy. I know I've messed up so badly, so many times. And still, you gave me another chance when you absolutely did not have to. And still, I'm - I'm a father now." Slightly dazed, he looks down at Teddy, who's still sleeping in his arms. "Thank you for...thank you for continuing to believe in me, and thank you for giving me a family. Thank you for _being_ my family. I've spent my whole life believing I've never truly belonged anywhere, that I was destined to spend my life alone, and that - that was almost a reality because of how selfish I've been. But now...I would do anything for you and Teddy."

Her face softens as she looks at him. "I love you too, Remus. That's never changed. _Never_. And Teddy is going to love you so, so much. You're going to be such a great father. You were meant to be a father." She leans her head against his shoulder now. "We're going to be the perfect little family, the Lupin-Tonkses."

He smiles, and even though there's a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminding him that _he_ will never be perfect - that no one's idea of the perfect father is a werewolf - for the first time in his life, he is able to recognize that this tiny voice no longer holds complete power over him, and while it may always be there, he can push back against it. He _must._ For he has more important things to fight for now.

**Author's Note:**

> _it's my fic and I'll abuse the semicolon if I want to_
> 
> Jokes aside, I hope you enjoyed - I apologize for the angst, I started out wanting to write about the night Remus was bitten and it just spiraled into even more angst from there lol. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
